


A Wink and A Smile

by strive2bhappy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-01
Updated: 2012-09-01
Packaged: 2018-01-15 23:23:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1323121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strive2bhappy/pseuds/strive2bhappy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> Getting back to where you were can sometimes be just what you need.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  
**Title:**  A Wink and A Smile  
 **Pairing:**   past mentions of Sam/Dean and current UST  
 **Rating:** PG, seriously, nothing really happens, maybe some swear words, but i don't even think there are any that are that bad.  
 **Warnings:**  excessive schmoop, jossed to hell by canon events, ridiculous castiel  
 **Summary:**  Getting back to where you were can sometimes be just what you need.

A/N: i wrote this literally years ago, shortly after point of no return aired in season five. it's just a ridiculously schmoopy thing because i was SO breathless and giddy at how that ep ended. "that sonofabitch brought me here." and "I mean, hell, if you're grown-up enough to find faith in me…the least I can do is return the favor."

i actually CALLED [](http://altruisticinteg.livejournal.com/profile)[ **altruisticinteg**](http://altruisticinteg.livejournal.com/) on the phone (i know, i can't believe those things can actually be used for TALKING either!) from my parent's house (because that's where i was staying that night) after the ep and boy, the awkward of having to explain to a set of parents why their nearly 40-year-old daughter had spent 45 minutes on the phone squeeing like she never did when she was a teenager, was a load of awkward. 

in part because i had just made my father watch the ep with me and i know for a fact he didn't get it, so going for the truth behind the squee and trying to explain to him that the two brothers he just watched are actually madly in love with each other and the proof was in those few, final minutes, would have likely broken his brain. and mine by association.

ahem. at any rate, apparently my squee couldn't be contained and had to also be spewed out in fic. so here we are. 

  
  
  
The TGI Fridays they find off the highway is oddly full for a Wednesday night, but the truly surprising part -- at least for Sam -- is that Dean doesn't complain. He just takes a seat on the red cushion after the pronouncement of a twenty-minute wait, lifts his eyes to Sam and pats the space next to him. Still riding high from his brother's admission -- even weeks later -- that Sam was the reason he didn't say yes to Michael, Sam complies with a grin. The denim of their jeans chafe together when Sam slides next to Dean. 

Castiel stands where they left him just inside the door, trenchcoat wrinkled, tie askew, looking around the room with its garish lights and loud 80s music as though he's been dropped into another plane of existence. 

They had managed to track down Cas -- after his rather ridiculously badass angel extermination -- in rural Nebraska, only a little worse for wear and still slightly pissed off at them. Shortly after, Dean proclaimed the need for celebration. How he located the chain restaurant in the middle of farm land, Sam will never know. 

Sam taps Dean's thigh with a knuckle and tilts his head toward Cas. 

"Cas," Dean says. "Have a seat."

"Your name is not Guy Fieri," Cas states.

Sam's still a little surprised the hostess didn't so much as blink when Dean said it -- his brother watches way too much Food Network television. He also knows Dean's banking on using the name to con a free meal from the "midwest hicks" as his brother had so tactlessly put it. Sam had suggested not actually calling anyone that could be a major step toward the plan's success.

Dean rolls his eyes at the angel in the doorway. "I know. Not a big deal. They just need a name to call when our table is ready. Sit down."

Castiel glances to the ceiling, cocks his head like he's listening. "What's a she bop?"

Cas is particularly inquisitive tonight -- possibly because he's had no one to talk to while lying in the fields of wheat and barley for a couple of weeks. Sam doesn't necessarily take the chattiness as a good sign.

Dean sighs. "It's Cindy Lauper. No one knows. Sit down."

Cas doesn't move. "This song makes no sense."

Dean leans across Sam's lap to grab the lower lapel of Cas's coat and starts to pull. "It's the 80s. None of them do. Come here. Get out of the way."

Cas takes a couple of dragging, begrudging steps toward them, frown still in place. 

Dean cups his palm around Sam's knee, using it as leverage to move Cas where he wants him. 

It takes all of Sam's considerable willpower not to react to the touch. He hasn't been this deliberately close to his brother in a long time -- probably before hell, if he's being honest -- and the scent and the nearness and the reconnect steal Sam's breath for a second. He likes when Dean is comfortable around him, a sensation that has been sorely lacking between them -- with good reason -- for too long. Sam wants to savor; he wants to lean in and nose behind Dean's ear, where the smell of him will be -- is always -- strongest. 

He doesn't because, well, they're in public, Cas is now standing directly in front of them, and he's not really sure Dean wants that. 

The moment is enough, though, to leave Sam shaky, off balance, somewhat dizzy, tingling with the newness of hope -- the same hope that flared in a truck outside of Van Nuys, California, and burns a little brighter tonight. Sam feels stupid, immature, like a teenager bubbling with anticipation, like Cas is a chaperone for a first date or something. Stupid. 

Dean is slow to move his hand from Sam's knee and even that warms Sam's chest a little. 

"Why would anyone thank God it's Friday?" Cas muses out loud. "Don't they know they shouldn't put their faith in Him? He doesn't care about anything, you know."

Sam winces at the volume with which the angel makes that inquiry, notices the family across from them bristle and speaks up for the first time. "Okay, Richard Dawkins. How about we not talk about that right now?"

Castiel's brows furrow. "Who?"

Sam shakes his head. "Nevermind. Just pick another topic of conversation."

Cas nods. "Why does Dean use the term blow job to be offensive? I thought they were enjoyable for humans?"

Sam can actually feel his eyes just about boggle out of his head while Dean chuckles beside him. He glances sideways at his brother and the soft smile on his face makes Sam's throat close up a little. That expression has been so rare for Dean, Sam almost lets Cas go with this train of thought, just to keep Dean's smirk. Almost. 

It pains him a bit to know he really can't. "Cas, Jeez, just," Sam sputters. "Not that, either."

"I haven't been a part of any of the studies myself, but from what I've read, our research suggests the stimulation by mouth to orgasm is particularly pleasant."

Sam has to physically stop himself from squirming in his seat at Cas's words. He thinks maybe he should take Dean's advice on getting laid more often if the indifferent discussion of a blow job is all it takes to make his cock twitch in his jeans. 

Cas keeps going. "That is what you meant when you said 'blow me,' correct Dean?"

An unpleasant fire slithers low in Sam's gut and he's got an urge to tell Cas in no uncertain terms that his brother does not want a blow job from him, but Sam really doesn't know that for sure and that makes the feeling even worse. The surge of jealousy isn't exactly new, but is particularly strong and potent and it makes Sam want to touch his brother in a proprietary way. So no one ever has to wonder who Dean wants a blow job from.

Sam blinks, a bit shocked at the course of his own thoughts and tries to mentally shake himself out of it. It's been so long since he's had the rights to Dean's body, the sudden impulse staggers him.     

"Okay," Dean says. "First of all, let's use our inside voices, alright, Cas? And two, pick a more neutral topic of conversation."

"I do have a question about abortions...."

Sam's "no!" and Dean's "neutral!" come out at the same time, with the same amount of vehemence. 

It's gonna be a shame when they get thrown out before they have a chance to eat anything. 

Like a beacon, Sam spies the pile of menus to his left, fists one and shoves it in Cas's face with a mumbled, "What'dya wanna eat, Cas?"

Dean huffs a breath and shoots Sam an attaboy smile and eyebrow bob. Sam's return grin is almost as involuntary as breathing and a direct result of the big-brother approval, something Sam has coveted since he was old enough to know the warm feeling it brings. Dean holds his stare for a second or two longer than usual and Sam has never wanted to kiss his brother more, crowded restaurant and inappropriate angel be damned. Luckily, Dean glances back up at Cas and breaks the connection before Sam can turn want into action. 

He's not sure if it's Dean's nearness or the light mood that seems to have been with them since California, but Sam has to clench his teeth not to fuck this whole thing up by giving into the sudden, reckless, lack of restraint he's feeling. 

Dean pokes the menu Cas holds. "Burgers, Cas. Thick, meaty burgers."

Castiel grimaces. "I have no hunger since Sam murdered Famine with his demonic blood powers."

Sam's really starting to wonder if hanging with Cas in public, or at all for that matter, is such a good idea. Reminding Dean of his demon blood addiction is not something Sam wants to do right now.

He's never been so happy to hear the guy's name from Diners, Drive-ins and Dives shouted out -- he blames Dean that he even knows the show. His brother's just convinced at some point he's going to recognize a place he's been, so he doesn't want to miss an episode. 

This hostess -- a different one from the girl who took the name -- gives Dean a knowing look and says, "Wow, Mr. Fieri. You changed your hair."

Dean gets that almost nauseous look that's characteristic when he's called out on his bullshit. Sam gives him credit for gamely playing along though. "Oh, yeah, the blond just got a little old."

The girl rolls her eyes and says, "Uh huh. Follow me."

Sam wastes no time shoving Cas at the girl's retreating back. "Follow her."

"She knew you were lying," Cas throws over his shoulder. 

Sam just keeps pushing him along. 

By the time they reach a booth along the back of the restaurant and the girl motions to the table, Cas takes the right side and Sam slides into the left. He has an insane whim to ask his brother to sit with him and shifts as close to the wall as he can, hoping Dean will take the hint. He knows it's childish and dumb and painfully needy and that's the only thing that keeps him from patting the vinyl booth beside him. He can feel his face light up involuntarily when Dean takes the seat beside him, brushing their shoulders together. 

Sam's mind skips back to a few months ago and Dean's comments about same-side-of-the-booth couples and his face heats. He shimmies a little in the booth while the hostess hands him a menu, hoping this awkward feeling of being a seventh-grader again will go away at some point. 

Speaking of middle-schoolers, Sam's almost certain the waiter who walks up to their table only recently hit double-digits. The guy's longing, appreciative look at Dean sets Sam's roller-coaster nerves on edge. 

Dean orders a beer and gets Cas a double shot of scotch on the rocks. Feeling young and puckish and juvenile, Sam orders a glass of white wine, just to see Dean's frown and look of disgust. 

Sam knows he's in trouble when he realizes he may be deliberately trying to get Dean's attention, even if it's negative -- possibly even competing with their eighth-grade waiter who walked away to get their drink order. He's not proud of this display of immaturity -- it's textbook kid behavior -- but he can't seem to stop it, either. He's gone so many months without even the thought that Dean would acknowledge anything he said or did that the ability to get a response -- good or bad -- has Sam acting out. It helps that Sam recognizes Dean's current alleged aggravation is laced with good-natured fondness and it's been so long since he has seen that on his brother's face, Sam shivers a little. 

Dean shakes his head and murmurs "girl" around a grin. 

Sam counts the return to the ribbing-of-old as a serious win. 

"So Cas," Dean says closing his menu. "What'll it be?"

Cas shakes his head. "Fish taco? That isn't right."

Dean shrugs. "They're not bad."

Cas looks like he might throw up if he could. 

When Malcolm in the Middle comes back with their drinks, Cas downs his in two rather impressive swallows and the waiter's eyes go wide. 

"Uh, sir," the kid mumbles. 

Cas demands another without looking up. 

"You, um, might want to take it easy, sir, we do have a maximum drink allowance." In the guy's defense, he says it as assertively as he's probably capable. 

When Cas does make eye contact, the boy steps back. 

"Don't make me smite you," Cas grumbles. 

Dean jumps in with a hand across the table on Cas's wrist that brings a painful shot to Sam's stomach. He takes a gulp of his wine. 

"He's off his meds," Dean tells the kid and gives Cas a warning glare. 

"I want more," Cas pesters petulantly. 

"How much for the bottle?" Dean asks. 

The kid -- Kyle -- Sam finally reads his nametag -- says, "We don't do that here."

Dean sighs and Sam knows he's contemplating how much cash would get the boy to budge. When his brother lets go of Cas to pull out his wallet, Sam is marginally pacified. Dean fists a fifty and Sam's aggravation swings back to the forefront; he opens his mouth to protest. Dean's knee knocking against his under the table is enough to keep him quiet. 

Kyle looks shocked, but tempted, and when Dean waggles the bill back and forth a bit, the kid reaches for it. 

"Good boy," Dean grins and the tone is praise from Sam's childhood, sorely missed and craved and cherished, and the resentment of everyone getting what Sam wants from his brother surges through him. 

So, he fakes a sneeze. 

Literally. Fakes a sneeze. And Sam's doubtful even teenagers stoop to this ludicrous a level of insecurity. 

Dean's palm curls around Sam's thigh and he murmurs, "bless," as Kyle scurries off -- fifty dollars richer -- to get the bottle of booze for Cas. 

Sam's not proud of himself, but he warms at Dean's touch on his leg, and wonders how far he will fall before the night is over. 

"Okay?" Dean asks, scratching his knuckles against Sam's knee. 

Guilt burns, but only marginally. It's dulled by the glow of Dean's attention and Sam nods. 

Cas wraps himself around the scotch when Kyle returns -- like the alcoholic he's apparently trying to be. Dean ends up ordering fish tacos for Cas, despite the angel's somewhat vehement protests, and steak and potatoes for himself, swearing it's the best kind of celebratory meal. Sam goes with haddock and rice, in part because he likes it and in part to see his brother's eye roll. 

Dinner is a relatively uneventful affair, while Cas drinks himself into a bit of a stupor and regales them with stories from the garrison, most of which Sam and Dean have trouble following, even though they chuckle goodnaturedly. 

When Cas proclaims that seafood -- like for example his taco -- smells like an unclean woman Uriel had once "lain with," Sam nearly chokes on his last bite of food and Dean unceremoniously shoves his clean plate away. 


	2. Chapter 2

"Dude," Dean cringes. "Okay. That's taking things a bridge too far," He takes a deep breath, squirms a little I gotta see a man about a horse."

Dean actually shakes his head, like he's trying to rid himself of the vivid description as he steps away from the table. He's gone long enough for Sam to grow concerned, not only for his brother's whereabouts, but also because he's left to deal with Cas's hurried explanations about the girl and the era and the socioeconomic conditions for personal hygiene, none of which make the pronouncement any easier to hear or contemplate. 

Dean returns with an air of badly subdued enthusiasm that makes Sam nervous. He sends his brother a silent question when Dean sits down and gets a minute shake of Dean's head and a wink. 

And Sam is right back in heaven's green room, just as confused and enraptured at his brother's expression as he was then. Sam has to fight to stop the grin that wants to surface, feeling like he's in on Dean's secret even though he has no idea what it could be. It's a sensation of togetherness, companionship and intimacy that's so new, so novel -- yet, ultimately familiar -- between them, it leaves Sam wanting to lean into his brother for a hug and never let go. 

When the group of waiters and waitresses gather around their table with a small cake that looks like it could burn down half of the state of Nebraska with the number of candles that have been shoved into it, Sam knows exactly what his brother has done. Dean's eyebrows bob at Sam and his smile is so infectious, Sam gets lightheaded with anticipation. 

It's back, Sam thinks. The feeling of having a teammate, someone who's on his side, who really gets him, who has his back. His laugh might be a bit watery, but he hopes Dean doesn't hear the tears beneath. 

He's pretty sure they're drowned out by the raucous, inane birthday song the group in front of their table belts out. 

Cas's expression remains one of almost simpleminded stupidity until they get to the "happy birthday, Cas" part and he begins to shake his head. "No," he attempts to explain over the chorus of voices, "This is erroneous."

Sam guesses the kids surrounding them probably don't know the definition of the word Cas continues to shout out over the song, but Cas's flailing arms and unbalanced look are enough to keep him from giving the angel the heads-up. Plus, Dean's laughing beside him, truly bemused, and the chuckles make his shoulder scrape against Sam's, motion warming his skin and he wouldn't give that up for anything. 

After the clapping and the birthday wishes fade, Cas panics and turns his agitation on them. "I do not understand. This is false and erroneous."

"Dude," Dean says around his laughter. "You can quit saying it, it's not getting you anywhere."

"But," Cas continues pointing at the flaming confection in front of him, "this has been given under false pretenses."

"It's free cake, just eat it," Dean insists. 

"I cannot," Cas declares. "It would be misleading and not appropriate."

"You might wanna at least blow out the candles before the whole thing sets the table on fire," Sam suggests helpfully. 

Dean bumps his elbow with a snort and warmth shimmies up Sam's chest. 

"Besides," Dean adds. "You defied God. You're a fallen angel. You think eating a little inappropriate cake is what's gonna do you in?"

Cas tilts his head, considers it. After a beat, he shrugs, blows out the candles and eats the cake. 

Dean's still chuckling when loud, rather obnoxious-sounding music -- in Sam's opinion -- blurts from the bar side of the restaurant, overshadowing the 80s ballad wailing from the speakers. 

Dean catches their waiter's elbow on the way by with a "hey, Kyle, what's going on?"

Sam pointedly forces himself to ignore the fact that Dean knows the kid's name. 

"Karaoke night," Kyle explains. 

Dean's face lights further -- if that's even possible -- and says, "No way."

Sam thinks the night's just gotten a lot worse with that simple two word declaration. 

His suspicions are confirmed when fifteen minutes later, Dean has paid their bill for the food and managed to find them seats around one of the tiny, high tables in the relatively crowded bar while three women butcher "I Hate Myself for Loving You." 

Under normal circumstances, the combination of three overly tanned co-eds in midriff t-shirts destroying Joan Jett would rate pretty high on Sam's list of experiences to be avoided, but he has succeeded in snagging the stool by the wall and propped himself against it. With a ridiculously jovial expression, Dean hops onto the stool beside him, so Sam indulges himself by hooking his ankles around the legs of Dean's seat. If he shifts a certain way, the inside of his knee whispers gently, delicately, it-could-be-an-accident, against Dean's ass. Sam's breath clogs in his throat when he realizes that instead of leaning away, Dean seems to cant his body closer to Sam and the idea warms him even more than the beer Dean orders for him. 

So Sam settles in, despite the caterwauling. 

Castiel clutches his scotch like one would an infant under his arm, and almost misses his own stool across the table. He looks utterly confused and somewhat pained -- with a side of drunk. 

Dean once again, attempts to explain karaoke, including the machine that displays the words. 

Cas's expression doesn't change. "Those women can't sing."

His voice, loud enough to be heard over the music, carries quite well. 

Sam winces and Dean tries to silence him with a wave of his hand across his throat. 

Castiel ignores him. "They can't. I know this because I have perfect pitch."

Before Cas can prove this with either a frightening story of yesteryear or an equally scary rendition of some song they've never heard of, Dean slips off his stool with a brief, "be right back."

Cas opts to drink three deep glugs of the scotch instead of enlightening Sam on his claim. 

Shortly after the final, out-of-tune notes end on the Joan Jett song, Dean has Castiel at the microphone with a hurried reminder of what's expected of him and a smack on the shoulder. 

The look of sheer glee on his brother's face when Dean takes his seat beside Sam makes Sam grin just to see it. 

Dean's chair inches closer to Sam's, whether from intent or simple momentum, Sam's not sure; he just enjoys his brother's nearness and as the first strains of Charlie Daniels' fiddle saw out of the speakers, he can't help but lean in and whisper, "You didn't."

Dean throws a glance over his shoulder and his green eyes sparkle mischievously. His smirk is right out of times gone by and Sam is so taken by it -- and the sheen of moisture on his lips from the beer -- that he actually has to clench his teeth to keep from taking a taste. 

Cas's monotone voice says "The Devil went down to Georgia" before he asks, "why would the devil go there?" and follows it with an incredulous, "he was looking for a soul to steal? Is this a prophecy?"

Sam laughs almost into Dean's shoulder. 

"He wants to make a deal??" Cas practically shrieks. "Who would Lucifer want to make a deal with? This must be a prophecy." Cas's look becomes rather focused -- or as much so as he can get in his pretty inebriated state. 

"You have to sing it, Cas," Dean shouts by way of advice and encouragement. 

"Why is it going so fast?" Cas questions, swaying a bit as he tries to follow the words like he's supposed to.

In Cas's defense, he really does attempt to sing it, but only someone who knows the song would have any idea what he was actually saying. Cas only manages to shout out certain words like "young man" and "fiddle" and "hot" and "hickory stump." He heaves a deep breath and continues with "didn't know it" and "if you care" and "make a bet" before he comments, "Deals with the devil are foolhardy."

Dean's laughing just as hard as Sam by this point and murmuring "fucking golden."

When he gets to "chicken in the bread pan picking out dough," Cas leads himself off into a rant about how chickens can't pick out dough because they're inanimate objects by the time they're ready for the alleged bread pan and that trying to cook them while they're still alive would be a violation of health department regulations. 

By this point, the other patrons of the bar have either figured out that the odd-looking drunk man in the trench coat is actually pretty hilarious or are too drunk themselves to care, but they're laughing along with Sam and Dean. In fact, as the song fades, the group erupts into applause that leaves Cas even more obviously confused and the co-eds eagerly choose Gwen Stafani's "Hollaback Girl" as Cas's next selection. 

As predicted, Cas muses about what, in fact, a hollaback girl is, and when the concept is explained to him in rather surprising, graphic detail, his eyes widen comically and he states that he is not qualified to sing the song and drops the microphone carelessly enough to produce high-pitched reverb. Cas heads back to their table amid whines and cajoles and even some "come on, mans" from the guys in the crowd, but Cas ignores his newfound fandom. 

He stops at their table, the empty bottle of scotch thumps against the wood when Cas announces, "I am feeling alarmingly dizzy and would like to go somewhere less loud to pass out."

Sam just shakes his head. 

They make it to the Impala and halfway to a motel before Cas is gone in the backseat murmuring about chickens and hollaback girls, no longer really conscious. 

Sam and Dean manage to get him inside a room and dump him in the middle of one of the beds, still dressed. They make a return trip for their stuff and toss it on the floor. 

Dean huffs. "Well, that was--"

Sam agrees with a sigh. 

"--really fucking fun, actually," Dean finishes, wide, bright smile on his face. 

Sam can't help but grin back. "Yeah, it really was."

Dean claps his hands three times, picks up his duffle. "Okay, you get him undressed, I'm gonna clean up."

Sam backs away, hands in the air. "No fucking way, dude."

"You wanna let him sleep in his clothes?" Dean asks. 

"When have we ever seen Cas without this outfit?" Sam counters. "He clearly doesn't care."

"It's gonna be uncomfortable for him," Dean argues, with a poor-angel tsk. 

"You're so worried about his comfort, you do it," Sam says, flapping his hands at the motionless man on the bed.

Dean's cackle sounds even behind the closed bathroom door and Sam knows the entire exchange held no command, no suggestion, it was only meant to tease and provoke. It's so nostalgic, Sam's breath gets caught in his throat. He remembers all the other times, the other motels, when this kind of give-and-take was common place. He's still standing with a dumb smile on his face when Dean emerges, wearing boxers and a t-shirt and other memories surface for Sam, shortening his breath for a different reason. 

He makes his escape to the bathroom, bag clutched like a lifeline in his hands, trying to get himself under control. It's been so long and the night has brought back so much, Sam's left shaky, out-of-it, unsure of himself and where he stands with Dean. He changes to a t-shirt and pajama pants, while taking belly breaths to calm himself. 

It's not until he's halfway through brushing his teeth that a sudden thought chills him. Two beds and Cas is on one, means someone's taking the floor and a world of possible awkward swells up to practically choke him. He doesn't even contemplate the fact that Dean could sleep with Cas -- the thought leaves a painful resentment stuck in his throat and it's easier not to think about it. He doesn't want to fuck this up -- it's been too good and they deserve that after all the shit their life has become. 

So he opens the door with determination and finds Dean on the edge of the bed, illuminated by the television, flipping through channels. Without a word, Sam starts pulling out drawers, looking for another bedspread, just manages not to make a pleased sound when he locates one -- it was kind of a long shot that a motel like this would have extras. 

He shuffles to the head of the bed, grabs a pillow and tries really hard not to grimace when he actually gets a look at the floor. He decides he's better off not knowing what the stains are if he plans on sleeping at all. He's just about to send up a prayer to whatever god is left who might listen that there aren't any roaches when Dean asks, "The fuck are you doing?"

Sam lifts his head to his brother and says, "Making my bed."

Dean looks at him like Sam just said he was gonna single-handedly rid the world of porn and pie simultaneously, or something equally heinous. "Dude," Dean says. "We've shared before. You're not sleeping on the floor."

The statement's made so matter-of-factly and Dean turns back to the television as though it's settled that Sam's left slightly speechless, holding a pillow and an extra blanket, feeling like he's been set adrift, not sure sleeping next to his brother all night is the best idea.

"Nothing's ever on," Dean mutters as he gets up to salt the base of the door and windows, obviously not certain of the protection a passed-out angel has to offer.

Dean tosses Sam the remote and it bounces on the mattress. "Wanna see if you can find a rerun of Square Pegs or something?"

A laugh is surprised out of Sam, a jolt of a sound. He drops the pillow back onto the bed and flings the blanket across the room, as Dean crawls into his side. 

"Remember that summer? Swear it was all you ever watched on Nick at Nite, even though I tried to tell you it had been made before you were even born," Dean scrunches the pillow under his head, a move so familiar, Sam's heart thumps heavily in his chest. "You still got a thing for Sarah Jessica Parker?" Dean hums. "Man, did she grow up good."

"Shut up," Sam mumbles, lifting the covers so he can slide between them. 

The television throws flickering lights against the walls as they settle into bed, a respectable amount of space between them, even though Sam's body seems to gravitate toward his brother's warmth and scent -- that clean, sharp smell that's wholly Dean and Sam's missed it, being close to it, able to breathe it in as he sleeps. He rolls onto his side and inhales -- he hopes surreptitiously. 

Dean picks up the remote. "You gonna watch this?"

Sam shakes his head and Dean clicks the television off, bringing darkness between one blink and the next. 

Cas is still murmuring, not really asleep, but definitely not awake, the alcohol enough to even render him pretty useless. 

Dean shifts and sighs, seemingly ignoring the random sounds coming from the other bed, "Steak was good tonight."

"Yeah?" Sam asks, ridiculously gratified that Dean seems to want to talk and the mundane conversation only makes him smile more -- there was a time they wouldn't have had even this. 

Dean makes a non-descript sound of agreement. "Fish okay?"

"Mm hm," Sam concurs, shoving a hand under his pillow so as not to reach for his brother.

Dean's restless for a few seconds, fidgety, more so than usual and when Dean speaks, it's remarkably quiet. "You're the only one who believed in me, you know."

Sam doesn't even pretend to not know what he's talking about. "Old habits, man."

"Even though you really shouldn't have," Dean whispers. 

"Yeah, I didn't really see it that way," Sam answers, equally soft.

The room's quiet for so long -- save for the aimless words coming from the other bed -- that Sam thinks Dean has fallen asleep. That's why his brother's voice sends a jolt through him.

"You think we're actually soulmates?" 

The question is so hushed that Sam's certain he's not really meant to hear it and it's only because it's dark and Sam might be asleep that Dean even took the chance to vocalize it. 

For an instant, Sam can't talk. He's actually physically unable to speak because it's the very same thought he's had since they returned from their celestial sojourn. He's tried to tell himself it wasn't like that, he'd been reading too much into the whole thing, taking only what he wanted from it. Ash using the word had just been some strange coincidence, even though they were apparently able to be, see inside each other's heavens, but the fact that Dean obviously put it together, too, means something. 

And Sam knows this, right now, this moment could make or break their entire future. 

So he takes his hand out from under his pillow and brushes the backs of his fingers against Dean's shoulder. He can just make out his brother's face in the dim light from the parking lot bleeding through the cheap curtains and he's sees Dean's eyes flicker at the touch, notices the uncertainty there, the fear, the near horror that Sam's actually awake. He watches Dean inhale deeply, as though preparing for battle or a blow, and he knows the one thing he's been sure of his entire life is Dean. His answer comes quite easily. "Yeah, I really do."

Dean exhales sharply and Sam can physically feel Dean relax under his hand. 

The smile is small but so incredibly bright when Dean murmurs, "Such a fucking sap, Sammy."

At this point, with the reaction he's already gotten, Sam's head is swimming, so he goes for broke, prostrates himself at his brother's feet -- so to speak -- willingly, doesn't even give a fuck if Castiel can hear him. "It's you and me, Dean. No matter how this plays out. Whatever comes next, whatever happens, we get eternity. Don't you forget that."

Dean wiggles, squirms a little, looks away from Sam and says, "okay, that's enough," but Sam notices how Dean seems to lean into Sam's hand, in complete contradiction to his words and Sam grins and says, "I'm gonna get Ash to put 'Endless Love' on a loop so it plays all the time."

Dean's fist punches Sam's abdomen, but he doesn't remove his hand right away. "Shut the fuck up."

Sam takes the chance and inches even closer, lays his forehead where his fingers had been, nose to Dean's t-shirt and is fiercely delighted that his brother doesn't move. "No Lionel and Diana? Okay, how about 'Crazy for You?'"

Dean rolls his eyes and huffs. 

"Dude, it's Madonna," Sam states. "She spanned decades."

"You are so fucking gay," Dean snorts. 

"You really wanna start that game right now?" Sam quips. 

Dean ducks his chin and Sam feels his brother's lips tickle the top of his forehead. 

Sam doesn't make a sound, too fearful of wrecking this fragile bubble of tenderness and closeness and intimacy surrounding them. 

"Sammy," Dean whispers, fingers clutching Sam's t-shirt where they still rest against Sam's stomach. "You mean it?"

Sam inhales deeply, taking in the scent and feel of Dean against him and even though he wants more, wants to just slide over and take, he has to admit that this, the two of them comfortable with each other, actually talking and meaning it, slots something right and good and real inside him, back into his heart, like a missing piece of a broken vase had been found and lined up properly again. He talks through a grin he knows Dean would say makes him look like a dumbass if he could have seen it. "I really do."

Sam can feel both the sigh and smile against his skin. Dean doesn't speak, but he's never had to for Sam to get what he means. 

They fall asleep connected like that and don't really move much in the night, except to get closer. Even when Cas gives them a funny look through hungover eyes the next morning, Sam couldn't possibly care less.

~ end


End file.
